A Study in Boredom
by britkaydub
Summary: Sherlock's been gone for two weeks, and John's worried. When he comes across a reminder in Sherlock's bedroom, he knows his friend is in trouble. John follows clues to find Sherlock, and when he does, Sherlock's a bloody mess. Will Sherlock's near death experience be enough for them to realize their true feelings for each other? Or will it be too late? {Johnlock - T to be safe}
1. Chapter 1

Two weeks. It's been two weeks since I last saw Sherlock. I don't know where he's gone. Nobody does. I'm not trying to say that this is completely unlike him, but he normally at the least texts. He hasn't been answering his phone at all.

If he's going out for more than a day he tends to raid his closet, leaving a huge mess in his room. This time, his room's clean. Well, as clean as Sherlock's room can get. He's got plenty of experiments littering every flat surface and most of the ground. Dirty clothes strewn across the floor, and his bed unmade. Papers from each of our cases lay in unorganized piles on his desk, so many that the desk is hardly visible.

I wander around his room aimlessly, wishing now more than ever that I had even a little bit of his smarts. I set my hand on top of his dresser, leaning heavily upon it. It seems that the stress I've been under worrying about Sherlock for the past two weeks has brought back my limp.

I lift my hand off the dresser, and feel something sticking to my palm. I turn over my hand. Stuck to the palm of my hand is a tiny piece of paper, with something written in Sherlock's handwriting. I peel it off my hand and squint at it. Sherlock's handwriting is never easy to read, especially when smudged and crumpled. After about 5 minutes, I am just barely able to make out what the paper says.

_Moriarty. Park. Midnight._

He didn't. He did _not_ meet up with Moriarty. How could he be so _stupid_? Does he have a death wish or something?

I think back to the last day I saw him. It had been a slow day, no – week, for the cases, and he was bored. He was bored. Bored. Crap.

-  
Any acquaintance of Sherlock's, especially one that took note of his personality, the shticks that made Sherlock, well, Sherlock, would know that Sherlock would do anything for a case, or anything to keep him occupied. The fact that he was missing, and the note that he left, and the fact that he was bored when he left, left me worried - _beyond _worried, to say the least.

Now, I knew that the note wasn't forged. It was _Sherlock's handwriting, _for God's sake. No person could duplicate his writing so perfectly. Not even Moriarty, but I mustn't underestimate what that man could and couldn't do.

I walked back to the kitchen and put a kettle of water on the stove and sat down. Mrs. Hudson was on a date, I saw from a note she left on the kettle, she put it there probably knowing that I would most likely be making tea in the near future. I kept her note next to Sherlock's; two notes from two people telling me that they were absent from my presence. But does Sherlock's note really fall under that category? He didn't leave me a proper note, like poor, old Mrs. Hudson had. Sherlock's was more of a reminder to himself. Actually, it probably _was_ just a reminder to himself. As much as it helps to think that he cared enough to leave me a note was a nice thought to have, it was most likely not true. My infatuation with his whereabouts left me oblivious to the ringing of the kettle on the stove. I shot out of my chair, too quickly, I may add. _Damn,_my leg.

The tea calmed me down, _slightly. _I still needed to get Sherlock back and I felt like I would stop at nothing to do this, yet there were many things to consider before I did so.

His scent. Sherlock's scent lingered throughout the house and throughout the kitchen. I could feel it in my gut, the absence of him made it painful to be in the house. So I decided what I would do, I would leave Mrs. Hudson a note and face the inevitable. Sherlock was missing. Gone. And I had to do something about it.

I put on my coat and trudged out the door, facing the frigid cold. I took one last look at 221B before I left, hoping that the next time I saw it, I wouldn't be alone.

The persistent downpour of rain did little to faze me, though it tried. Sherlock's note (and my gun) safe in my pocket, I strode through the streets to the park, which was only a few blocks away. I could've gotten a cab, I suppose, but the thought didn't occur to me. The only think I could manage to think about was finding out what the hell Sherlock had done.

By the time I arrived at the park, I was soaked in freezing rain, but no matter. I had a one-track mind. I looked around the desolate landscape, trying to use what little detective skills I had to see where they might have been meeting. The park isn't very big, it's just a plaything for the children and some benches for the adults. Oh, and there's also a birdbath, but I highly doubt Sherlock's hiding in there.

The park's shoved in the empty space between two townhouses in a complex, surrounded on three sides by buildings and alleys-

That's when it hit me. Of course. He _would_ go meet the bad guy in an alley. At midnight. At a goddamned park. Quietly, I approached the back of the park where the alleys are located. It was dark, even though the moon and streetlights were shining bright. Looking down one of the alleys, I can see absolutely nothing. I take out my phone and shine the little light it provides down the alley, allowing me to see about two feet ahead of me.

I carefully walk down the length of the alley, hearing and seeing nothing. I then shined my phone in the second alley. I walked down that alley, and a few steps in I saw a black mass huddled against the damp, dirty wall. I took out my gun and held it by my side, just in case.

"Who's there?" I called out to the person.

The person lifted their head and looked at me. I could just barely make out his curly black hair and striking cheekbones. "Sh-Sherlock?" I whispered.

I ran over to his side and yanked off the blanket that covered the rest of his body. He was covered in red. It took me a second to realize that it was blood. His blood. Dizzying, I looked away. _I was an army doctor, I should be able to handle this. _

With a deep breath, I carefully laid Sherlock down on the concrete, so he would be in a better position to examine him. "Sherlock, are you awake?" I asked.

I heard something like a grunt escape him, and his eyes fluttered open, closing again almost instantly. "It's okay, I'm here now. You're going to be fine."

I carefully took off his shirt, gasping at the state of his chest. Multiple slash marks bled openly. "Oh, God, Sherlock."

I pulled out my phone to call Lestrade when I heard something behind me. Sherlock's eyes snapped open, and they widened in fright. "John…" he muttered before he passed out again.

I finished dialing his number and pressed 'send' quickly, before turning around to address the noise I'd heard.

As I turned, something hard and metal hit me in the head. I dropped my phone, my last coherent memory being the sound of Greg's voice saying my name over the phone, more and more urgently as the time passed until I passed out.


	2. Chapter 2 - Lestrade POV

One good thing about being a Detective Inspector is that you're only really expected to be working if you've a case. Which, at that point in time, I did not. Perhaps crime has taken a vacation? But no, we would never be that lucky, would we?

I knew that the second I saw the caller ID on my cell phone. 'JOHN W' popped up in bold letters on my buzzing phone. Yes, I do consider John a friend, so that's not why I was surprised to be getting a call from him, but we rarely call, we much prefer to text.

Without a moment's hesitation, I grabbed my cell from the desk and flipped it open, spinning in my chair to face the closed office door. "Greg."

I got no response, though I heard a scuffle and a bump, sounding like John'd just dropped his phone. As if that wasn't enough, immediately after, I heard a bang followed by a moan; it was John, I knew that for a fact. I also knew that this was no pocket-call, call it intuition if you'd like. I call it deductive reasoning.

"John?" I asked my phone. It remained silent, though I knew he hadn't hung up since the call was still connected. "John?!"

"John!" I yelled into the phone, as if that would do any good.

Worry increasing by the second, I stood up and began pacing, unaware that I'd caught the attention of the whole office.

"John, are you alright?" I asked, knowing I wouldn't get an answer.

But then I did. Of course, not from John. Nor from the phone.

"Lestrade? You alright?" Sally stood in the doorway to my cubicle-office. I'm ashamed to say that I jumped at her voice, I hadn't realized she'd opened the door.

I held up one finger, motioning for her to be quiet. From the speaker on the phone, I could hear two men's voices. I set it on speaker and turned it all the way up.

"You take Holmes to the Boss, and I'll bring this interrupting bastard, too. Must be a friend of Sherlock's, and what better way to make him talk than use bait?" The first man chuckled sadistically.

"Right then. Hey – is that a phone?" The second man asked, and after some shuffling, I heard the man flip John's phone shut.

After taking a deep breath, I hit the 'end' button on my phone as well. Not even looking at Sally, I ordered her to locate John's phone via GPS immediately.

"Of course, sir." She said, a bit flustered. She was obviously worried; much as she disliked Sherlock, she had a soft spot for the army doctor.

Feeling a bit lightheaded, I fell backwards onto the seat, anxiously awaiting Sally's return.


End file.
